


Wherefore, Heroism?

by bluRaaven



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Bittersweet, M/M, Major Character Undeath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: When he wakes up in a clean bed in what he later will learn is a sanatorium, he finds a pair of flintlocks and a rose quartz rosary lying on the night stand next to him, meaning they're probably his.Not that he has the slightest idea where he is, or how he got here in first place.As he tries to gather himself, a group of people wearing unfamiliar faces enter the room. They crowd around his bed and ask questions, but when he has no answers it is them who tell him that he was lost to them for nigh half a year, dead and buried, mourned, and now brought back to life by a miracle of the Light.They tell him this place is called the Hamlet, and that his own name is Dismas.
Relationships: Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon), Grave Robber/Musketeer (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the From Beyond event has been picked a few times already, but I wanted to have a go at it as well. Hope you'll enjoy!

When he wakes up in a clean bed in what he later will learn is a sanatorium, he finds a pair of flintlocks and a rose quartz rosary lying on the night stand next to him, meaning they're probably his. 

Not that he has the slightest idea where he is, or how he got here in first place. 

As he tries to gather himself, a group of people wearing unfamiliar faces enters the room. They crowd around his bed and ask questions, but when he has no answers it is them who tell him that he was lost to them for night half a year, dead and buried, mourned, and now brought back to life by a miracle of the Light. 

They tell him this place is called the Hamlet, and that his own name is Dismas. 

He does not know what to make of the information. He sits on the bed naked from the waist up, surrounded, and clutching the covers so hard it turns his hands into claws. 

It is a blessing when a stocky woman with a voluminous headdress and a commandeering presence enters the room. A white veil billows after her from how briskly she strides before she stops to level an incinerating gaze at the thong of strangers. 

"Out. NOW." She points in the direction of the door. 

There is a chorus of protests, but when a male voice says, "Come on, let's give him some time," they start leaving, one by one, until the only ones left are the nurse and him and the room is blessedly quiet once more. 

He doesn't understand, doesn't remember, _he doesn't remember –_

"Awake, are we?" the nurse asks, her attention turning to her patient. 

He looks up from the crumpled indents that his hands left on the sheets and nods, not trusting his voice. 

"Good. It's about time." She approaches him with a pewter cup full of clear liquid. "Drink this," she says, handing it to him. "Water and essence of valerian," she explains, reading his questioning look. "Best you take it easy for a while, and this will help." 

He takes the cup, and she helps steady his hands and makes sure that he downs the contents. 

Slowly, the tension begins to drain out of him until he realizes he is shaking and sore, several muscles twitching uncontrollably. He wonders if he cramped and didn't even notice, and if that is the reason why he is so sore. The tremor in his hands is the last to abate. 

He is fine. 

The medicine is clearly working, and the nurse bustles about as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He is still confused about waking up in an unfamiliar place, but the sudden wave of exhaustion that crashes over him makes even worrying increasingly difficult. 

He is fine. 

Outside, the sun is shining. 

_I've been through worse._

Of course he doesn't know that, but thinking it helps. 

"Lovely day outside," the nurse says, opening the shutters wide to let a warm breeze in. 

It is, but he has a comfortable bed and is content to enjoy it from inside his nest of blankets. Nobody makes him leave. He sleeps, and when he wakes it is dark outside. Somebody must have been watching over him, because despite the late hour, he is served a bowl of hot chicken broth, salty and sweet, and it makes his mouth water for more. He eats a second serving, and then, although no longer hungry, wolfs down a third, and then collapses back into his bed's soft embrace and sleeps until it is daylight again. 

"Feeling better?" The nurse is back. 

She had left him to disrobe and bathe in privacy, and he had made good work of the tub, the slice of soap and the couple of buckets filled with tepid water that he'd been given. Afterwards he had not bothered with slipping back into the loose linen shirt and pants that he had worn ever since he'd first woken up. Those needed a wash as badly as he had. 

"Yeah," he rasps, sitting up. Every time he speaks it feels like he's got gravel stuck in his throat, but at least he now manages words. The first time he tried, he couldn't make a sound and he ended up coughing so bad, he almost passed out from the lack of air. 

"Good." She beckons him to follow her. He hesitates for a moment, but then follows, clad in naught but the towel wrapped around his hips. The stone floor feels cold underneath his bare feet, but it's not a long walk, just down the stairs and into a smaller room on the left. 

He doesn't have to be told that the room's most prominent feature, a huge mirror of polished silver that leans against the wall, is not originally from the sanatorium. It looks ornate and heavy and wherever it came from, it must have been a hassle to carry it all the way here. He wonders why they bothered. Then, he wonders _who_ did. 

The blurry shape reflected in the dull, grey surface slowly comes into focus as he steps closer. 

The man frowning at him is a stranger. 

_This is me._

He looks like someone he wouldn't want to have a run-in with in a dark alley. 

The corners of his mouth tug downward, and his nose looks like it has borne the brunt of several punches to the face. He ought to shave, because his stubble is growing in patches around the scars on his jaw. 

Overall, he looks older than he feels. There are streaks of grey in his black hair, too many to count. He has brown, weather-worn skin, not dark enough to mark him from the East or as a Southerner, but too dark to belong to a Northerner. A mutt, then. 

During his bath he had already discovered that sometime in the past, he'd been stabbed, multiple times. He wonders what he did to deserve that. His body tells the story of a past filled with violence and hunger. He doesn't mind the scars so much as he does the prominent jut of bone at his hips or the hollows he'd like to fill out with muscle. 

He drops the towel. 

The rest is… ordinary. 

"Well, I ain't no beauty," he concludes. It is a little disappointing. 

"You look better than most things that were dead for half a year," the nurse comments dryly as she pokes her head in to check on him. He discovers then and there that he sure doesn't have a prudish bone in his body. 

"Heh. Bet I smell better too." 

"Don't push it." Her eyes narrow, though he manages to catch the flash of teeth in the mirror before she disappears again. 

He returns his attention to his reflection. "S' just you and me now, pal." 

In the looking glass, the man's shrewd obsidian eyes look back at him, gauging. 

He sighs. Not even his mirror image seems to approve. 

When he returns to his room, he finds a well worn pair of boots standing next to his bed, and fresh clothes laid out on top of it. They fit him well enough, though his favourite piece by far is the coat. It's like a second skin, even though it hangs down to his knees and he needs to fasten the belt because it's made for a man twice his girth. He rolls up the sleeves and then buries his nose in the soft fur collar, smiling. He knows it's his with a certainty he cannot explain. He may not recall who he is, but he has the distinct feeling that this coat knows him well. 

He is informed that he is free to leave. 

"This is a sanatorium, not a prison," the nurse huffs, before she tells him that he'll better be back by sundown, or he'll get to know the single holding cells they use for uncooperative patients. He shivers at the thought, and promises to be back on time. 

The sanatorium has been his world, for the few days he actually remembers living on it. A miniscule world consisting of a mostly bare room with large windows overlooking the town, a washing tub, a bed and a nightstand. Leaving it seems like a daunting prospect, but as his strength returned, he has been getting increasingly restless. 

The moment he steps outside, the light hits him like a sharp rock to the head. It hurts and it makes his eyes water, so he shields them with his hand, squinting through near-closed lids. The street he finds himself in is as unfamiliar as the room he had woken up in had once been. He will not let that deter him – after all, had he not gotten used to the latter as well? It's not a very large town; he had been able to see as much from the window. He only needs to pick a direction, and to follow it. 

He chooses to head right, because it looks like it leads towards the town's outskirts. 

The road swings in a gentle curve, leading him past a stable and a large barn-type building. A heavy set of double doors stands open, allowing him to see the carriages within. There is a herd of horses grazing on a spacious pasture behind the stables. From there it isn't far to the forest's edge. A waystone painted orange and green from the moss and lichen growing on top of it marks the border of the Hamlet. 

From here on out the cobblestone gives way to packed earth and the road disappears into the forest. He contemplates the trees for a long moment before he turns around and heads back. He will find out more about the world out there after he has grown familiar with this place. One step after another. 

Going the other way, he realizes that no matter where he is in the Hamlet, there is one sight that doesn't change. Overlooking the town is a sprawling estate, flanked by ancient oak trees. With its iron fence and pointed spires it seems ancient, cold and foreboding. He doesn't approach but he has no trouble making out that like most of the town, it must have seen better days and just like the buildings below it too shows signs of repair. 

He spies a cart full of tools and supplies next to a house and further in the distance the sun is bleaching skeletons made of logs where new buildings are being constructed. A few of the buildings sport walls of bright, fresh wood that contrast against the old, washed-out timber. 

He doesn't mind being lost in the crooked streets of this town. Maybe, he muses a while later as he passes a flock of geese in someone's overgrown front garden, he ended up here because he wondered whether it's true what they say about the countryside; that so far away from civilization, dogs bark out of their arses. 

He is terribly disappointed in that regard when he actually comes across a dog. It's a gangly wolfhound that shows some white around its muzzle and walks with the stiffness of old age. He makes kissing noises at it and it wags its tail when he scratches it behind the ears. Since it looks well-cared for, he doesn't feel too bad about not having any scraps on him that he could feed it. 

They spend some companionable time together, the man sitting on the bench and the dog lying in a sunny spot next to him. 

Considering his situation, it is a marvel that he can feel almost at peace here, when he still lacks a clear idea of where _here_ actually is. Maybe there is a part of him that recognizes this Hamlet, though why he should choose a place in the middle of nowhere when there were cities out there, busy and full of life, he does not know. He could have headed to Velstaad, or Fraehaven, or even as far North as Old Port, the jewel of the Northern city states. For the time it takes to draw breath he can see an ice cold, green sea with ships bobbing in the harbor. 

Then the vision is gone, as if carried away by the wind. Even the names of the cities slip through his mind like the rough tufts of the wolfhound's fur through his fingers. He tries not to mourn their loss. It isn't like he knows whether they are real, after all. 

When the hound's ears prick up and it rises to trot off without a backwards look, leaving him on his own again, he decides to move on. 

He still hasn't seen the other side of the town. It takes him a moment to remember which way to go, but as he steps into a broader avenue, he can see past a gap in the buildings and catches sight of that estate again. He'll have to remember to ask whom it belongs to. For now, it is as good a landmark as he can ask for. 

Nary a minute has passed since he decided on his new course, when an approaching figure catches his eyes. It's not the everyday villager scurrying past, too busy to spare a glance at a stray, be it dog or man. No, this is a striking blonde woman wearing a floppy hat and thigh-high boots that would be the cause of much gossip and scandalous looks at any social event. She walks like a lady and dresses like a rogue, and he is intrigued what a character like her might be doing here, when –

"Dismas!"

She breaks out in a wide smile, and he looks around, fully expecting that she is addressing someone behind him. There is no one though, and he suffers a moment of confusion until he recalls that,

_Dismas, that's supposed to be me!_

"… yeah?" He can hear the uncertainty in his voice. 

"There you are." She draws even with him, and then hooks her arm through his like they are a couple out for a stroll. 

He is too surprised to react in any way and thus, the window to so passes. Up close, he can tell that they're roughly the same height, and that she's beautiful in an effortless, undone way. Like she doesn't care anymore, and hasn't for a while. 

"How are you?" 

She eyes him up and down from underneath her hat, coquettishly almost, and he studies her in return. There is a mole on her right cheek, and she reminds him – he cannot tell. Dismas swallows, because for one moment it was almost like he could remember…something. 

She doesn't wait for an answer. "Oh, you're gonna get _so_ sick of people asking that," she drawls, at the same time as clear blue eyes drill into him. "How's the memory?" the mysterious woman asks, all mirth gone in an instant. 

"Things are still…foggy." Dismas answers truthfully. 

"Foggy, right." She nods once, her brows drawing together, mouth puckering in a most unladylike pout. As quickly as it had appeared, the expression is gone again, replaced by a smile. Less toothy, and this time, it makes the skin around her eyes crease, softens the haughty look. Even her voice sounds gentler when she asks, "Let me show you around then, yes?" 

"Thanks … " Dismas falters. 

"Audrey," the blonde supplies easily. 

"Thanks, Audrey." 

They stroll through the Hamlet's streets together, and Audrey shows Dismas where he can find the bakery, the barber, and the general goods store. She leads him to the river where it's broad and slow and one can bathe in the summer, and back to where he can take his laundry to the washerwoman to get it cleaned. 

"This is the barracks," Audrey announces, pointing at a squat building made of stone. It sports a couple of new wings that are made of timber and cling to it like a growth. 

"Barracks?" Dismas asks, not sure what a place like the Hamlet would need a barracks for.

"Of course," Audrey continues, unaware of his thoughts. "Where else do you think everybody lives?" 

"Houses?" Dismas offers, because last time he looked that's exactly what they were for. 

"I don't mean the townsfolk," Audrey answers, with a gesture like swatting away a bothersome mosquito. She pokes Dismas in the upper arm. "I mean the fighters!" 

"Like…soldiers?" Dismas guesses, because maybe the town keeps some sort of militia at the behest of one lord or another. 

"Something like that," Audrey agrees, her tone implying that it's actually nothing the like. 

"What'd ya need soldiers for?" Where there are soldiers, there's usually also conflict. Then, wars follow and then woe anyone who runs into one of the press gangs roaming the streets in search of easy targets. 

"We had a bit of a problem with vermin," Audrey remarks in an offhand manner. 

"Vermin." Dismas looks at his companion, but she seems too lost in thought to notice. "Like what?" he insists to know. "Plague o' squirrels? Rabid badgers?" 

"No, more of the Eldritch kind." 

Audrey begins to walk again, and Dismas follows her, stumbling on the first step to catch up. He knows his eyes have to show his disbelief, but… "Eldritch!?"

The blonde nods and pets him on the arm. "Don't worry, sweetness – it's mostly under control now. These days it's more about making sure it stays that way. And if we root out some cultists while doing so then all the better, wouldn't you agree?" 

Dismas isn't sure any of the news is agreeing with him, but he nods anyway. Eldritch…cultists…then, something Audrey has said sparks his interest. "We. That means you fight too?" 

"Oh, you didn't think I was here to look pretty and provide enjoyable company, did you?" Audrey tosses her hair over her shoulder. She is teasing him, but in a good-natured way. Dismas doesn't mind. He can tell that she is trying to make this easier for him to swallow. It goes down as well as boiling oil. 

"Why are you here?" Dismas asks, meaning, 'Why am I here?' but not having worked up the courage to ask that question just yet. 

"Because cultists carry offerings for the things they worship, and after we kill them, we can strip all the filthy lucre off their cooling bodies," Audrey says with almost maniac glee. "Of course, the Heir gets most of it." She sighs wistfully. "But we still get a substantial cut – oh, don't look at me like this. We can't all cite noble reasons like Reynauld with his holy war, or Baldwin with his quest for an honorable death. No, some of us are really that shallow, and in for the gold." 

A moment of silence follows. Dismas doesn't think Audrey nearly as shallow as she pretends to be. He also thinks she wouldn't appreciate him saying so. Therefore, he doesn't. He likes Audrey. 

They go on, past the smithy and training hall – the old one, because as Audrey tells him, they've expanded since. Behind the buildings they find grassy plains that melt into gently rolling hills on the horizon. To their left there is a large field lined with straw dummies, but it's empty now. 

Much closer, a rough dozen of men and women have gathered around a lone figure in armour. More than one of them carry some form of weapon and all appear to be absorbed by what the knight is telling them. He is balancing a longsword on one shoulder, gesticulating with the other, and when he shifts it is enough for Dismas to spot the golden cross of the Light on his chest. 

Dismas knows a crusader's symbol when he sees one and he instantly feels weary of the man. 

"Who's that?" Dismas asks, pointing in the direction of the crusader. His mouth feels dry, his heart palpitating too fast. 

"Who - ," Audrey squints as if she had trouble making out whom he means. "Oh." She looks at him funny. "That is – Reynauld." 

"What's a crusader doing here?" Dismas wants to know. The man in question has not spotted them, none of the warriors have. They pick up their arms and assume various fighting stances, and a moment a later they can hear the ring of metal striking metal. 

"You probably know that better than we do," Audrey replies. "You were the first two to arrive here, together." She gives Dismas an apologetic look and a miniscule shrug. Perhaps he will recall, perhaps he will not. 

"So is he the commander around here?" Dismas guesses. 

"Not quite," Audrey replies and Dismas has the impression that she is relieved that they're not talking about the crusader anymore. "That would be the Heir, the lord of this estate. But I don't think there is a decision that he makes that he doesn't run past Reynauld first. He oversees the expeditions," Audrey explains, "and the training of the recruits. Linesi and Barristan help him out." 

Before Dismas can ask, Audrey continues. "You'll know Linesi when you see her; she's the one with really dark skin. She's also a wicked shot with a crossbow. You wouldn't be able to tell she and Margaret are friends if you ever see them training together. Have you met Margaret yet?" 

Dismas shakes his head. 

"We can swing by the shooting range later, see if she is there," Audrey says. "Anyhow, Barristan's a former man-at-arms. He's the old grouch with an eye patch. He arrived here with Baldwin – now _he_ used to be a king in the East, can you believe?" 

"Used to be?" Dismas repeats carefully. 

"Baldwin's dead," Audrey says curtly. "He was leprous, and he chose to die fighting rather than to waste away of sickness. Even if Para claims she could eventually have healed him." 

"And Para is – "

"The Hamlet's resident Plague Doctor. You'll usually find her at the sanatorium, if she isn't arguing with Junia about some questionable medical practice or another. Junia's the head Vestal, by the way." Audrey pauses, then adds, "This town? It ain't much. But we _do_ look out for each other." 

Dismas still does not know how he found himself in the company of all these people, but before he can ask, or do something else like embarrass himself by bawling in reaction to her words, Audrey's grip around his arm tightens, and she pulls him off to the side. They take a cobbled alleyway that leads them to a large square. This has to be the town center, with two-story buildings huddled close together as there is not enough space for them to stand on their own. 

The middle of the open area is taken up by a well and a large statue of a regal man in a robe. Dismas is awed at the sight at first, but the impression is spoiled as he and Audrey come closer. A pair of pigeons has nested on top of the statue, and now the man has bird shit dripping down the left side of his face and beard. 

Audrey pays the statue no heed, instead pulling Dismas towards a sprawling house with a stone base and wooden upper levels. She makes a grand gesture, grinning like the cat that got not just the cream, but the whole bucket of milk. "And this here is our favourite place: Jubie's." 

The moment they step over the threshold, Dismas feels right at home. Jubie's is a tavern that walks the fine line between seedy and comfortable, and it is named for its owner. Jubert is a burly man with a depressed moustache that quivers with barely restrained emotion when he hands them two small glasses full of amber liquid. 

"On the house." 

Dismas thanks the innkeeper while Audrey blows a kiss in his direction. They take their drinks and sit in a comfortable corner booth that offers them glimpses of the outside through the small crown glass window next to them. 

"Cheers." Audrey knocks her glass against his, just hard enough to make the liquid inside slosh around, but not hard enough to spill it. "To friends." 

It's a good toast to drink to and the booze burns just the right way going down. When their drinks are gone, Audrey orders them two tankards of apple cider. Jubert also serves them a tender cut of meat that's been roasted to pink perfection, and a thick slice of crusty dark bread that is ideal for soaking up the juices. Audrey chews with her eyes closed and an expression of bliss on her face. Dismas expected her to pick at her food, not to rip into it like a hungry wolf. 

He does not know how he will pay for the meal, but Audrey tells him not to worry about it, so he doesn't. 

"I come here often?" Dismas asks. His hunger has been sated halfway through the meal, but he can't quite stop eating. 

"Jubie probably had to take a loan from the Heir to cover for the loss of income," Audrey says through a full mouth. 

"Heh." Dismas looks around, takes in the sturdy wooden tables and benches, the giant tile stove that is radiating heat even from half a room away, and the small touches like the cushions to sit on top of or the blankets that cover the backrests but can be used to wrap around one's shoulders. Yes, he can see himself coming here often. 

"What's down there?" He nods at sturdy, rustic staircase at the end of the common room. He can't see where it leads, because there is a thick felt curtain blocking the view into the space below.

"Tables for cards and dice," Audrey says. "Basically, Jubie's got a gambling hall in the cellar." 

Dismas suddenly realizes that he hasn't played a game of cards in what feels like forever. Audrey, who can probably read him like a book, shakes her head. 

"Oh, no. You, mister, have a ban." 

Dismas' face falls. 

"Perhaps we can argue the details another time," Audrey adds hastily, "but let's not get into trouble on your first day back." 

"I'm not looking for trouble," Dismas mutters casting a longing look at the stairs. 

"Maybe not," Audrey agrees, "But trouble's always looking for you. Oh, cheer up. I'm sure they'll let you play a couple of rounds if you promise to keep the aces out of your sleeves." 

Under different circumstances, Dismas would be irritated about her assumption that he might cheat – or rather that he might get caught cheating. But she probably knows better, and also there is a pretty redhead that slides into the booth right next to Audrey. She kisses the blonde's cheek, and takes a surprised Dismas' hand in both of hers. 

Audrey hurries to introduce her as Margaret. Margaret has a dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and she wears her fiery red hair tied in a loose knot. 

"Bonjour," she greets Dismas with a bright smile. "Je suis très heureuse de te revoir. Comment ça va?"

"Ça va," Dismas replies, and the only one surprised that he actually understood the river of words is himself. "And you?" 

"Fine," Margaret replies, letting go of his hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face and behind her ear. She nods at Jubert when he brings her a large pint of ale, then takes a long drink and sighs. "Ah. Much better now. Say, is Reynauld coming too?" 

"I… don't think he is, no," Audrey says when Dismas fails to answer. 

"Non?" Margaret's look turns to worry. "Is something wrong between you?" 

"No, we're just taking it slow until Dismas' memory recovers, ma chérie," Audrey fills in.

Margaret smiles and shrugs, contemplating Dismas with a tilt to her head. "You know, I was getting used to being the best shot in town. But it was a bit boring too. No competition." 

"Don't let Lin hear you," Audrey chides and Margaret laughs. 

When Audrey asks if they should order another round a good while later, Dismas declines politely. 

"Thanks, but I should head back. Nurse's orders." 

"Oh, yeah. Wouldn't want to get you locked up after your first day out," Margaret says. 

Dismas swallows. He'd had no intention of testing the nurse's patience, but he had not believed in the existence of such cells. He does now. 

Audrey and Margaret accompany him back to the sanatorium, and thankfully the nurse does not lock him up. She asks after his wellbeing, then lets him retire to bed. 

That night, Dismas lies awake. Outside, the moon is too bright, casting the whole room into cold, hard-edged shadows. The bed is too hard, and the covers too hot, and Dismas tosses and turns, and eventually just lies with his gaze turned to the ceiling while dark thoughts nibble at his sanity like mice. 

He doesn't understand how it can be that he knows what a pistol is, how he can understand and speak Margaret's language or know the first verses of the Light, but not recall his own name. There is a hole inside of him. More than once he rests a hand on his chest to feel for a pulse. His heart beats away as he lies awake and aches, and does not know for what. 

Memories? Perhaps they are not lost to him forever and besides, he can make new ones. 

Friends? He met two today and they still care about him. 

Why does he feel so alone then? There is something missing, and he is terrified of closing his eyes for fear of losing what little he gained today. 

He tries to curb such wayward thoughts like one might discipline an unruly dog pulling on a leash and come the morrow a bleak mood has gotten hold of him that not even the first rays of the rising sun can dispense. Dismas dresses quickly and leaves the sanatorium with the nurse none the wiser. He walks the streets of the Hamlet like a ghost, unseen by the villagers. 

When he reaches his goal, the sun sets the gilded cross atop the belfry on fire. A sign from the heavens? He doubts it. No, it is not heaven he descended from. 

He doesn't enter the church, but passes it by and steps through a hip-high iron gate that opens on screaming, rusted hinges. Dismas' pants are quickly soaked around the calf where the high grasses, wet with morning dew, brush against them. 

He sees broken tombstones and others so worn from wind and rain that they have been polished smooth, the engravings that adorned them having become illegible with the passing of time. This is an old part of the cemetery. He will find no answers here. 

Dismas follows the gravel path until the cemetery changes. He can tell that somebody has been tending to the more recent graves. There are flowers planted in neat beds and the grass is cut short. Many of the crosses are made of simple wood and will rot away eventually, but whoever the unfortunate souls resting in them are, somebody at least made an effort for their sake. 

Dismas moves on. He counts eight mounds, and there are more still, but one of the graves draws his attention. It has a large pile of earth next to it, suffocating the delicate flowers underneath. It is open, a back abyss, deep enough to swallow a man standing. Dismas forces himself to step closer. Hidden in his pockets, his hands curl into fists. 

His eyes land on the tombstone. A proper one, made of stone and adorned with some crimson fabric. Somebody has bothered to leave candles, but they have since burned out. He can read the letters carved in the stone, albeit with difficulty. 

D I S M A S

Perhaps they were wrong – the voices that first visited him. Perhaps his resurrection is not a work of the Light, but of the Dark – and his existence not a miraculous second chance, but punishment. What if he is unable to die, cursed to return time and time again? He will claw his way out of the earth, fight and die until he loses not only his memories, but his sanity. 

Here he is: a man who cannot remember his past, nor envision a future. 

A walking corpse, he is disgusted with his own existence. 

Perhaps he ought to climb back in, let the earth cover him like a blanket, let everything fade back into blackness. 

He should –

He. 

"Ya alright there, lad?" 

Dismas's head whips around so fast, it makes him dizzy. He is standing right at the edge of the grave and has to catch his balance so as not to actually fall in. How long had he stood here, eyes rooted to the ground and his thoughts full of darkness?

Dismas would be offended to be called 'lad' by anybody else, but the man who is sitting on a bench that leans against the church wall has to be into his early sixties by now. Compared to him, Dismas might well be a lad. He thinks he recognizes the man's voice as the one who had said to give him some space, back at the sanatorium when he had first woken. 

This has to be Barristan, the man-at-arms. He is stocky of build and has a head of white hair, an equally white beard, and wears an eye patch over his right eye. 

"Was I really dead?" Dismas asks, not expecting an answer. 

Barristan pauses in packing his pipe. Then, "I helped bury you," he answers. 

Dismas realizes Barristan probably isn't here to stare at Dismas' grave. 

"What brings ya here?" 

"I lost friends, too." He points his pipe at another grave, the engraving on which reads,

B A L D W I N

Baldwin. He remembers Audrey speaking of him, king and leper. He ended up in the lot next Dismas'. Unthinkable, in any place other than the Hamlet. 

"Think he might be alive in there too?" Dismas asks in morbid fascination. 

Barristan gives him a sharp look with his one good eye. "I hope not. He deserves his rest." 

"Yea, I could do with some o' that too," Dismas mutters and rubs at his burning, gritty eyes. 

"What ya need, is something to take yer mind off all o' this," Barristan states, misunderstanding. "Behind the barracks you will find the kitchens. Why don't you see if you can make yourself useful?"

Despite his exhaustion, Dismas does as Barristan suggested, leaving the man-at-arms to his pipe and his grief. He has no trouble finding the barracks again, and a slender man in a turban points him to the kitchen where he spots a corpulent woman in a deep green habit. 

"Sister – ," Dismas calls out to make his presence known. 

The nun turns, surprise showing on her round face. "Junia." She watches him approach with open curiosity. "What brings you here?" 

"Barristan said I might be of help," Dismas answers honestly. 

"You have met Barristan?" 

"Yea, earlier. In the graveyard," Dismas explains and he instantly knows by the Vestal's expression that he has given himself away. 

"Is there…something on your mind?" Junia enquires. 

Dismas snorts. That's one way of putting it. "Lots." 

"Margaret told me that you seem to have lost your memory," Junia asks carefully. 

" 'S true." Dismas answers. There is no point in lying anyway. "Dunno why. Nurse can't explain it." 

"Perhaps the Light brought back the parts of you that were…salvageable," the Vestal muses. 

Dismas barks out a hollow laugh. "Sister, there's not much of me left." 

It is enough of an answer when Junia does not reply. Dismas' mood turns sour, the questions from earlier assaulting him again. Perhaps a Vestal of the Faith will have better answers for him than a grizzly old veteran. 

"What if this was a mistake?" Dismas asks quietly. 

"I don't claim to know the Light's will pertaining to all of us, but mistakes like that do not happen," Junia says. 

"Yeah, well. You ever heard 'bout something like this happenin' before?" Dismas wants to know. 

Junia takes her time answering. "No." 

"Guess there's a first for everything, then." 

The Vestal crosses her arms. "Perhaps it is a mistake," she replies in a cool tone. "I can think of two dozen good people who would deserve this more than you." Dismas has the distinct impression that Junia doesn't like him very much. 

"But." The Vestal sighs, the rigidness melting out of her posture. "Life is the greatest treasure of all, and the Light chose you. Now it is up to you what to make of it." 

Dismas holds his breath, then releases it in a rush. She is right, but that doesn't mean he feels ready to do… what exactly? He'll start by making dinner and go from there. 

"What're we cookin'?" Dismas' voice sounds strangled. 

Junia takes the change of topic in stride. "Broth," the nun says, pointing to a large bubbling pot. "Meat and vegetables and dumplings with mushrooms, onion and fresh white cheese." 

At least they work well together, Dismas is pleased to find out. Junia oversees the pots and pans and Dismas chops away at the vegetables and meat. Eventually, only the dough remains. Mixing enough for all the hungry mouths is an enormous task and by the time they're finished kneading it, they're both covered in flour and short of breath. Dismas' arms ache and his hands cramp, but he has been able to pour all his frustration into making the dumplings. He is drained, of the anger and despair, and of energy. 

"Now we need to get the salt water boiling," Junia says cheerfully while Dismas slumps in a chair. "I do not know the time, but it takes exactly two Laudate Lucem to cook them properly." 

Dismas nods, then realizes he doesn't recall the prayer. He doesn't recall any prayers, come to think of it. If the Light resurrected him, he should probably know to say a few words of thanks. And if not, well, it wouldn't hurt either way. 

"Teach me?" 

Is that a flash of shock on Junia's face? She overcomes it quickly. "Of course. Though it should be said with a rosary. I can borrow you mine." Her hand goes to her belt. 

"I already got one," Dismas replies, pulling the beaded necklace out of his breast pocket. He'd put it in his coat this morning and been carrying it with him ever since. 

Junia eyes it with curiosity and something like _knowing_. She stirs the pot one more time, then shows him how to properly hold the rosary. 

"Alright, repeat after me." 

"So I'm a man of the Light?"

They're at Jubie's again, and Audrey has re-introduced him to Josephine, a small woman of Eastern descent with an eccentric wardrobe, a wickedly sharp wit and a bloodhound's talent for sniffing out lucrative deals. It's the latter that helped her become the Heir's financial advisor – a task she claims suits her much better than dungeon-crawling. 

If not for Margaret's timely intervention, Dismas fears that he may have pledged all his worldly belongings to her, which Josephine would let him loan back…for a fee. As it is, he is still the proud owner of a patchy wardrobe, a pair of flintlocks and a mysterious rosary made of semi-precious stone. 

There is a moment's silence following his question, and then all three girls break out in hysterical laughter. 

"Guess not," Dismas huffs and slides the rosary back into his breast pocket. 

He is sure they will let him in on the joke, even if Josephine is shaking her head as she attempts to sip her drink without spilling any of it. Audrey is wiping tears from her eyes and Margaret's face has gone red, but at least she looks like she is trying. 

"Tha- that – " An unsteady finger points at Dismas. 

Then, Audrey makes a pig-like grunting noise when she takes a breath and Margaret hides her face in her crossed arms, leaning on the table for support. Meanwhile, Josephine is fighting a losing battle with not having her ale come back up her nose, and Dismas kicks up his feet on a nearby stool, a wide grin making his face ache. 

He is happy, he realizes, his earlier bleak mood gone for now. He doesn't know if it was the work, or Junia's reminder that his life is in his own hands, but here, in this dingy Hamlet, with the girls for company and a cool, damp glass of Jubie's home brew in his hand, he feels something that has been eluding him since waking up, maybe even something he has not known in his former life: a sense of belonging. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny typos:  
> I somehow messed up voluminous and autocorrect gifted me with a voluptuous headdress, my, my.


	2. Chapter 2

Life in the Hamlet has a certain rhythm, Dismas finds. There are the villagers, who go about their ways and whose lives, returned to mundanity now that the Hamlet has been freed of the Eldritch plague, seldom touch on those of the resident adventurers'. Then there are the men and women who risk life and limb for fortune and glory, whose task is to rout the remaining cultists and put to the sword any monsters that would dare to reclaim the Hamlet or its surroundings. 

Perhaps it is a foolish attempt to reconnect with his past, but Dismas has had his name put up on the duty roster, and each morning he checks in to see what the day will bring for him and for the others. Everyone has to pull their weight, and Dismas is no exception. 

He enjoys being put to work, enjoys having a task more than he does the actual work itself. That usually ranges from helping out in the kitchens, to sweeping the barracks, doing laundry, or repairwork. One day he drives the cart to the sawmill where they load it up with logs, and on another to the mill to collect bags of flour. He helps the nurse in the sanatorium, changes bedding and scrubs out bed pans and, lastly, he works the bellows for the smith until his arms and back burn with agony. 

He is still sore from the workout, not recovered even after a full night's rest. Dismas groans as he attempts to sit up with his muscles screaming in protest. He can feel each and every one of his estimated fourty-plus years keenly this morn. 

Oh, to be young again. To be the dashing rascal from his dream, quick with a smile and quicker yet with a dagger. Dismas rubs sand out of his eyes, savouring the lingering memory of his dream as one might the aftertaste of expensive whiskey. 

_The chirping of cicadae was only interrupted by the shrill sound of the guardsmen's whistles. He was furiously stomping his feet to get them into his boots while a pretty woman in a candlelit room swathed in crimson brocade called him ugly things, screaming that he owed her money._

_Dismas remembers jumping out of a window and landing on a protruding construction with cat-like grace. He rolled off of it, glad that he had taken the time to don his boots. They were of a fine make and, unlike the pants he had forgone, they actually offered an advantage in combat._

_He also had his coat – the very same one he owned still, outside the realm of dreams – and it was heavy and bulky with the comforting weight of his flintlocks._

_When the guardsmen came after him, Dismas met them with his dirk drawn and his pistols loaded. After the fight was over, he stripped their corpses of anything valuable, including a set of trousers that were too long in the leg but would do when he stuffed them inside his boots. They were marred only by a small bloodstain, high up near the waistband._

_There was the sound of more whistles in the distance, the city streets flooding with torchlight. Dogs barked and the good, law-abiding citizens stuck their heads out of their windows and barred their doors. The highwayman passed through moonlit alleyways unseen, becoming one with the night._

Dismas stretches one more time, then whistles a tune as he rises to dress, stuffing his pants inside his boots, just the way he had in his dream. He had been an unstoppable force of fury and calculation and it had been exhilarating. He has never felt so alive. Dismas feels high on the thrill of his imaginary fight, even though the images are fading fast. 

(In fact, come midday, he will have forgotten them entirely.)

The duty roster hangs in the common room of the barracks. It is a large board made of soft spruce wood and because many of the adventurers do not know their letters, they each have a wooden symbol to represent them. It is pinned to the board along with more of such carvings that stand for meeting places and times of the day. Most of the information of one's duties gets passed on by word of mouth, but this is a good way for everyone to keep track of all the others. 

Dismas' marker, a flintlock crossed with a dirk, has a rising sun and tankard of ale next to it. He's wanted at the tavern which gives him a good chuckle since he planned on being there anyway, though for recreational purposes rather than any work related ones. 

Dismas studies the rest of the roster, noting how the four name-markers at the very top have a torch next to them. That has remained unchanged for the past three days. Every week a party of adventurers is sent out into one of the regions of the Hamlet; the Ruins, the Warrens, the Weald or the Cove. Their work ranges from scouting to extermination or, in this case, inspecting and repairing the protective wards that hold the forces of evil at bay. The four are bound to return soon from tHeir mission in the Cove and Dismas' gaze wanders on. 

He can connect a face to the majority of the name-markers by now. Some people do not feature as often as others, having other tasks to attend to. Barristan, for instance, is in charge of the fresh recruits, teaching them the basics of weapon practice and how to maintain tHeir equipment, as well as the tactics they will need to know to successfully work as a unit. 

Reynauld's duty appears to be to grind the more advanced trainees into sweaty, bloody pulp, and Linesi oversees the distribution of resources; from making sure they order enough iron for the smith to forge into weapons, to gathering their portion of victuals from the farms. 

The Heir watches over it all from that ancient, haunted mansion on the hill. His gold is the grease that keeps the machine running, and he is liberal with it. 

Dismas has his weekly allowance, and after he is done with whatever work awaits him in the tavern, he'll most likely spend it there. But he finds joy in a proper meal and a pint or two of cool ale, and he is never in want of good company at Jubie's. 

As he crosses the main square, Dismas catches sight of the cathouse girls out and about, hanging up baskets of laundry to dry the cloth in the sun. They wave at him as he passes by, their manner friendly rather than seductive, and he greets them with a bow and a,

"Mornin', ladies." 

He knows them by name now, although he hasn't availed himself of their services. Jenny, a petite redhead with her hair cut short, asks if he will come and see her later. He has considered it, more than once, if truth be told, but never seriously enough to do something about it. Dismas keeps his answer vague, and moves on, whistling a tune he had picked up from Farley, the smith. 

As he enters the tavern, Dismas is immediately welcomed by Mallilie, the wolfhound. An old lady she may be, but she sends him stumbling when she leans her full weight against his leg. He is not allowed to pass until he has spent an appropriate amount of time stroking her rough fur. Only then does she head off with a yawn, to curl up on her bed next to the tiled stove. 

Dismas wipes his hands on his pants until they're clean of dog hair and saunters up to the bar, knocking on its polished surface. He greets Jubert with the same cocky smile he had the whores, even if it's wasted on the old sourpuss. 

Jubert informs him that he needs the cellar decluttered to make room for new shelves he had commissioned from the carpenter. Some of the old ones are so rotten they are threatening to disintegrate under their load, the wood not even fit to be kindling. 

The innkeeper threatens to slap Dismas so hard his head'll be dancing a jig for a fortnight and a day if he gets drunk on the job. Then, they spend the day hauling casks and bottles upstairs until the tavern looks more like a warehouse and Dismas half-wishes to be back in the smithy. 

He doesn't touch a drop of ale until sundown, then steals six bottle from one of the last crates, stuffing them behind the leather straps that usually hold his flintlocks. His coat is loose enough that Jubert does not notice the added bulk, and with hundreds of other bottles lying around he will hardly miss the few that are gone. Dismas doesn't think too much on his sleight of hand, considering it a just payment for his hard work, and a bit of fun to boot, no harm done. 

Since Jubert closes down the tavern for the night – probably afraid of other guests taking liberties – Dismas has to look for another place where he can enjoy the wine. But everyone knows that it's solitary drinking that makes a drunkard, so he first finds himself some company. 

The mistress of the brothel jumps up when six people storm her establishment. They rent the largest room where Dismas, Audrey and Margaret end up on the spacious bed. The plush futon is taken by Josephine and her two companions. 

One of them is a dark-skinned, turban-wearing man whom Dismas had seen around but never spoken to. The Easterner introduces himself as Alhazred, a scholar from the Holy Land. The other man is named Darell, a former lumberjack turned mercenary who is now proud to call himself adventurer. 

They speak of everyday things at first; the work that is being done around the Hamlet, and the Heir's future plans about which they can only gossip. Then the talk turns to dungeons and quests, future and past. Before long, the companions are regaling Dismas with tales about past ventures, the people they had known and adventured with, and the close calls they had had. 

They laugh about the time Alhazred got stuck in a slime made of ectoplasm, about being lost underground, about Josephine stealing a near priceless gemstone from a mysterious entity they had dubbed the "Collector" in the middle of the fight, and about Audrey's short-lived infatuation with an Eldritch queen of the sea, called the Siren. 

They open the wine and pass the bottles around while Alhazred sets up his opium pipe. In no time, the candlelight is dimmed by a low-hanging cloud of bluish smoke. It makes Dismas' eyes sting and water and his lungs burn with the first drag of the bittersweet tobacco, but afterwards the feeling is replaced by one of lazy contentment as he listens to the stories – many of which he features in – become progressively wilder and less plausible. 

Dismas isn't the only audience for the group of adventurers. Because it's a slow night for the establishment, the cathouse girls are free to join them and a few lounge on the floor on pillows, enjoying the time off and listening with rapt attention. Jenny is there too, and over the course of the evening she slides closer and closer to Dismas who does his best to pretend that he doesn't notice her advances. 

Oh, to have a pretty girl in his lap – yet the thought of taking Jenny feels wrong somehow. Dismas doesn't understand why. It's not that she isn't pretty, but he doesn't desire her. He knows he used to visit the brothel, before, and the girls still spend time with him even though he isn't paying them. He reasons that this has to mean that he couldn't have been a bad client. 

They'd have some fun rolling in the sheets, and he'd treat the girl right. Dismas doesn't make a move though, and his dilemma is resolved when he returns from a trip to the outhouse to find Jenny making out with Darell. She doesn't spare him another glance, and he doesn't miss the attention. 

"Oh, get a room you two," Audrey drawls, amused. 

"As if you're one to talk," Alhazred says with an edge in his voice. 

"Don't be mean," Josephine reprimands him, gently stroking the Easterner's pointy beard. 

After hogging a bottle for himself, Dismas' mind is as fuzzy as his tongue, and it is with a pang of embarrassment that he realizes he is the only single one here. 

Margaret notices him gawk and gives Dismas a shy smile. "Shall we invite Rey?" she asks and everyone except for Audrey laughs as if she had told a joke, the point of which flies right over Dismas' opium-addled brain. 

Alhazred coughs, the first one to succumb to Audrey's withering glare, and the topic quickly changes. 

"Are you coming to the play?" Josephine asks Dismas. 

"The play?" Dismas repeats, blinking heavy-lidded eyes. "What play?" 

"The town play," Margaret reminds him. 

"There's a town play?" Dismas asks in joyful surprise. 

There's a collective groan that condemns Dismas' ignorance of what might as well be the Hamlet's most anticipated event. 

"Oh, sure, it's only the _one_ _thing_ everyone's been talking about since Pierre has announced that he's come up with a new piece," Audrey shoots back. "Have you been living under a rock?" 

"Nah," Dismas counters. "Under a mound 'o earth." 

There's a brief lull in the conversation as nervous glances are cast their way. Darell and Jenny are probably fucking in that corner so they don't notice, but Alhazred and Josephine look shaken at the morbid comment. Audrey cackles like it's the funniest thing ever and Dismas can't help but grin. 

When the darkness weights heavily during a sleepless night, when he is alone and can feel all that earth press down on his chest, suffocating him until he can barely breathe, he sometimes succumbs to the fear. But Dismas will crawl back inside that grave before he'll let anyone know. 

"So, who's Pierre?" Dismas asks through a yawn. The room feels too hot, and everything is soft and blurry around the edges. His eyes close of their own accord until Audrey clucks her tongue at him. 

"He used to be a court jester, I guess. Before he murdered some king and his whole entourage." 

"He murdered- ," Dismas splutters, suddenly feeling a lot more awake as the news cut right through his opium-haze.

"Details ," Audrey replies in a singsong voice. "Now he keeps the spirits high in the Hamlet." 

"The play will be fun, you'll see," Margaret assures. "Audrey has a role and so do Josephine and Al." 

"We all take part in the bigger pieces," Alhazred explains. "Not us _specifically_ , that is," he corrects himself. 

"So you know what's it about?

"Oh no, we only know our own role," Josephine throws in. "Pierre hasn't told us anything beyond our lines, and we're not to share them." 

"On the pain of death," Alhazred adds in a hushed whisper. The scholar's eyes dart nervously around the room, as if he expects Pierre to appear in one of the shadowed corners, ready to garrote him with a lute string. 

"Think he was bein' serious?" Dismas asks with a grin. 

"Oh, I know he was," Alhazred says solemnly, and slowly the grin melts off Dismas' face to be replaced by a look of shock. 

The façade lasts for a couple of heartbeats, and then there is a bout of laughter, and Dismas receives a jovial elbow in the ribs. Alhazred hides his smirk in his beard, but Audrey cackles,

"You should see your face!"

Dismas shakes his head and laughs along. He should have known by now that they were pulling his leg. "I ain't ever trustin' another thing ya say, ya lyin' shits," he drawls and reaches for the pipe again. 

It is so late as to be early, when Dismas staggers back to the sanatorium. The cobblestones seem to shift treacherously under his feet, and more than once he needs to lean a guiding hand on the walls of the buildings. On the way, Dismas ends up throwing up in someone's vegetable garden. He probably could have picked a better spot for that, but he's so damned miserable that he hurls right over the threaded wattle fence. 

Not in the right state of mind to apologize for that, and terrified that he might have to attempt to if he is seen, he staggers on. Dismas' stomach lurches when he finds the sanatorium doors closed. He tries to push them open, but they won't budge. He does the only thing he can think of, and bangs the massive door knocker against the wood until they open. 

The noise must have roused the nurse, that or maybe she is a vampire that never sleeps. She is looking at Dismas with her arms crossed and her mouth in a thin line. 

"If you're feeling healthy enough to get drunk in the tavern, you clearly no longer need our services," she says with a sniff. "Unless you want to dry out in one of our special rooms." Still, she takes a step back and allows him to stumble past her. 

"Sorry, darlin'," Dismas slurs over his shoulder, and begins to pull himself up the stairs. 

On the next morning, Dismas is woken by a racket that makes him groan as pain laces past his closed eyelids. Without looking he knows that it is too early for him to be conscious, but whoever is banging bedpans together in the corridor outside of his room has no regard for his sleep and no pity. Dismas blinks. 

A giant, beady-eyed vulture is leaning over him, close enough to peck out his dry, bloodshot eyes. A shrill scream escapes Dismas' throat, and he quickly dives under his blanket for safety. 

"Please, stop that," the bird says in a cool tone. 

Dismas holds his breath. 

"This is a place for the sick and ailing," the bird continues, its voice thick with disapproval. 

Dismas dares to pull the blanket down far enough so he can chance a peek at the monstrosity from underneath it. "I'm feelin'plenty sick," he croaks. 

"Oh, I bet you are," the bird agrees almost good-naturedly. 

This time though; Dismas can spot human eyes behind the thick glass goggles, and a few strands of blonde hair that have escaped the headdress. He has heard about the eccentric plague doctor before; but her presence sends a cold shiver down his spine. 

"What're you doin' here?" Dismas rudely asks. "I ain't got the plague, do I?" 

Para tilts her head to the side, perfectly mimicking the movement of a curious bird. "Body rot, if I had to judge by the foul humours rising from you," she says drily. "But worry not. Cecil promised me that I could try this new cure I have right here," the plague doctor says and lovingly pats a box. Then, she shoves it right under Dismas' face as she opens the lid. 

The inside is black with the squirming, fat and pulpy bodies of dozens of leeches. 

A sigh escapes the birdlike mask. "Unfortunately, that abomination next door had to rattle its chains and wake you up."

The highwayman only pauses to pick up an armful of his belongings, before he is out of the sanatorium at a run. 

Over the course of the next hours, Dismas finds out the hard way that he doesn't like being hungover. 

Thankfully, not every night ends with an escapade like that of yestereve. In fact, that was quite a change from Dismas' usually quiet evenings. On most days, Dismas visits the tavern for an evening meal and a round of gossip and then he heads to the church to say his prayers before it is time for him to go to sleep. It allows him a moment of peace, of clarity. He does not like to be alone, but he soaks up the company and noise of Jubert's tavern, and treasures the quiet moment when it's just him and the Light. 

This time, the dimly lit and blessedly quiet interior of the church offers a welcome refuge. The old stonework is infused with the scent of incense and it mixes with that of the burning candles. Dismas sinks down onto one of the pews and leans his head against the wall. It is cool the touch and after a long moment he can feel it begin to numb the dull pain in his skull that throbs in rhythm with the beat of his heart. He closes his eyes and focuses on deep, even breaths. 

He may even have dozed for a while. An indeterminable amount of time later, the rolling queasiness in his stomach is gone. In its stead, Dismas is plagued by feelings of guilt. It is inappropriate to be sitting out his hangover in a holy place, but he is loathe to leave just yet. So, to placate the Light, Dismas begins to fumble his way through the Verses that Junia has taught him. 

He's only forgotten a couple of words in the Latin ones and will have to ask the nun to go over them with him again, but overall he is really pleased that he can remember most of them. The moment of triumph is dashed when a cold, high voice speaks up from the shadows behind the altar. 

"Did you miss the tavern in your drunk stupor? Here is a holy place." 

Dismas looks up to find the priest sneering down at him. He must have come in through a side-door, or the Highwayman would have noticed his entrance. The priest's hands are hidden inside the long sleeves of his simple brown robe, and there is a look of contempt on his face. 

"And your pronunciation of the Light's language is atrocious." 

If Dismas were a dog, then the sight of the priest would have raised his hackles. Since he is not, it only makes a cold fury surge through his veins. His prayers are between him and the Light, and not for the other man to listen in on. 

Dismas rises abruptly, and the world around him lurches dangerously. "What of it; so's yer haircut. And if the Light ain't struck ya down fer that, it'll tolerate my drunk arse," the highwayman growls. He finds his equilibrium, and turns his back on the cleric, only to find another man bearing witness to the exchange. 

The doorway is filled out by the figure of the damned crusader. 

Where the priest is a gaunt, weaselly fellow in a poor cleric's robe, the crusader is wearing a splendid tabard of white and gold. To add insult to injury the warrior may have doffed his armour, but he looks no less broad for the lack of it. Only the red scarf around his neck seems to be out of place, but Dismas is too irritated to contemplate the eccentric accessory. 

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and with his courage bolstered by his anger, shoots the crusader the darkest look he can manage, daring him to say something. It stops the knight in his tracks as if it was an actual force, and Dismas uses the moment to brush past him, and out of the church. Although he can feel the other man's eyes on him, burning into his back, the former highwayman doesn't look back. 

He cannot stand the hurly-burly that is the tavern, and he is in no condition to work, so Dismas naps the rest of the day away in a hay pile in the stables until the rumbling of his stomach wakes him. This morn, Dismas may have sworn he'd never be able to keep down a bite of food, but the afternoon has him roaming in search of something to eat. 

As he is strolling up the main street, Audrey finds him. 

"Where have you been?" the blonde huffs, frustrated. "The Heir wants to see you." 

It takes the meaning of her words a long time to make it to Dismas' brain. "What, now!?" He's in no mood, let alone in a condition, to meet the lord of the Hamlet. 

"No, come next full moon," Audrey replies tartly and grabs his sleeve. "Come on!"

"Wait!" Dismas rips himself out of her clasp, then trudges over to a rain barrel next to a house. With just the barest hesitation, he dunks his head in the water and furiously scrubs at his face and hair in an attempt to look just a little bit less like the hungover mess he is. 

"How's it look?" he asks Audrey, nervously, after resurfacing. 

"Like your drunk arse fell into the horse trough." Audrey spares him no mercy and nudges him along. 

The mansion grows larger with every step, and it brings to mind a giant bear trap that Dismas is about to set his foot in. He wouldn't say it is voluntarily, as a sharp poke near his kidneys tells him that Audrey might be holding a dagger to his back. 

Even the brass knocker on the door is shaped to depict something tentacled and vile. Dismas casts Audrey one last pleading look that is skillfully ignored as the doors open to reveal a liveried servant bowing deeply. The old man makes an inviting gesture towards the inside of the mansion and hobbles backwards awkwardly, still bent at the middle. 

"Ah, 'tis the scoundrel who kept my liege a-waiting?" a high-pitched voice mutters, but Dismas cannot discern the man's expression since the servant's eyes are still on the floor as if he was mustering Dismas' dusty boots. 

The highwayman thinks he can hear Audrey murmur 'good luck' at him and then, with a last shove that sends him stumbling over the threshold and into the antechamber, he's on his own. He might be more impressed to be standing inside an actual mansion, if his mind wasn't busy feverishly wondering what he'd like to have on him more: his rosary or his pistols. 

"Please forgive the Caretaker." 

Dismas' gaze snaps from a particularly large cobweb overhead and to the main hall. 

His host is a tall man in his early to middle thirties, with wispy blonde hair and a sallow, unhealthy complexion, but his voice is cultured and holds a good measure of warmth and a trace of an apology. "He's quite mad, you see." 

As if on cue, a giggle bubbles up behind Dismas. He whips around to see that the so-called Caretaker has straightened and is regarding him with the frozen grin of a skull. The Caretaker slaps a hand over his mouth, as if to cover an expression that has been permanently etched upon his face, then hurries away, leaving Dismas and the Heir alone. 

Dismas uses the moment to survey his surroundings. In the main hall, a fine tablecloth is laid out on the large oak table. Atop it are plates of painted porcelain and massive silver candleholders. The cutlery is made of silver as well, and the drinking glasses are crystal. It seems like a ridiculous display of wealth in Dismas' eyes. 

The lord of the Hamlet clears his throat. "I'm Morphew Dumont." There is something almost charming about the Heir's discomfort. It bolsters Dismas' own confidence. 

"Dismas, but I think ya already know that." 

Morphew nods, hastily, and bids Dismas to come further inside, leading him towards the table that is decked out for two. "Of course. I was… uh, told of your predicament. Please, take a seat." 

Dismas sits down in an opulent chair of crimson brocade. The upholstery wants swallow him whole, but the illusion of grandeur is spoiled by the dozens of tiny moth-holes that dot the fabric. 

"How are you feeling?" the other man asks hesitantly. 

'Audrey was right,' Dismas thinks. He has fast grown sick of people asking him that very question. 

"Alright, I guess," he answers courteously enough. "Don't remember feelin' no different." 

Morphew nods, and fusses with the silken scarf tied around his neck. Dismas has trouble making out his expression in the gloom. A closer look also reveals that the initially impressive windows that line the front of the room are streaky with grime, and barely let any light through. Dead insects lie strewn about the windowsill and the main source of light is the enormous chimney behind Morphew. 

Dismas regards the Heir and wonders if it is possible for a human to wilt and wither like a plant. Just as the silence between them stretches for too long, the Caretaker arrives, carrying trays laden with food. 

Dismas accepts the food and declines the wine. The sour, fermented smell makes his stomach heave. During dinner, Morphew does most of the talking, and the drinking. Too much, in fact, as Dismas can tell by the feverish glassiness of the other man's eyes. 

Overall, it has to be the strangest dinner that Dismas has ever partaken it. Morphew is a generous host, but to Dismas he seems to wave between his role as Dismas' employer and someone who is not quite a friend, yet longs to be one. With every glass of wine some of the lordly manner falls off Morphew, until Dismas finds himself faced with a young man who slumps in his chair and rests his feet on a free seat without any regard for the expensive, if aged upholstery. 

Dismas slides uncomfortably in his seat as Morphew hints at his loneliness, cursing being stuck in the decrepit mansion with only a madman for company and the oppressive presence of the ghost of his dead grandfather. He had never been one of the adventurers, had never known the camaraderie that Dismas has enjoyed from the moment he had awoken in the sanatorium. 

The highwayman feels a wave of gratitude for Audrey who has treated him like an old friend, giving Dismas a better idea of who he is, and for Margaret's open-hearted kindness, Josephine's good-natured banter, Alhazred's sharp wit and Junia's unwavering faith in the Light which has helped him believe that there might, after all, be some good in this world. 

During a break between the courses, Morphew shows Dismas a painting of his grandfather, Mortimer Dumont – or as Morphew calls him – "The Bastard". Dismas might not have the full story, but it is very clear that Morphew thinks that his grandfather was responsible for most of the evil that befell the Hamlet. 

Why Morphew would want the life-sized painting of a man he clearly hates to hang above the staircase is beyond Dismas. They turn their backs on the old Dumont, and towards the balcony from which they can overlook the entire Hamlet. 

"Lovely view," Dismas comments, and Morphew nods, chewing on his lower lip. Despite an uneasiness building inside him, Dismas decides to take advantage of the other man's talkative mood to ask about how they had met. A highwayman and a nobleman –they are not two likely travel companions. 

For some reason, Morphew seems reluctant to speak of the day he had hired Dismas and Reynauld to accompany his carriage through the Weald to a cursed village, forgotten by the rest of the world. Instead, his gaze flicks towards Dismas with ever increasing frequency. He has trouble focusing, but Dismas has to give him credit for trying. 

"It's good to have you back," Morphew whispers, the alcohol having erased most inhibitions. 

Instantly, Dismas can feel himself go hot and cold at the same time. Sweat pricks his skin between his shoulder blades and under his arms. 

Dismas takes a step back. Morphew follows. "You may stay, if you wish. After dinner." 

"Uh… what's for dessert?" Dismas asks, in a desperate attempt to steer the conversation somewhere, anywhere, else. 

"Jelly of eel, pudding of ectoplasm," the Caretaker giggles. 

Dismas whips around to find the old servant standing at the top of the stairs, watching them with his hands clasped before him, his maniac grin in place. 

Morphew must be used to the man's eccentric remarks, because he only sighs before a delicate hand lands on the shoulder of an increasingly panicking Dismas. Suddenly, Morphew is too close and the delicate flush of his skin and the intensity of his gaze hint that at something that Dismas doesn't want to contemplate further. 

Desperate, Dismas picks the only topic that comes to his mind. "So – I guess I like taverns, but how did ya come by a _crusader_? " he rattles out. 

Morphew flinches, as if the highwayman had backhanded him. He stares at Dismas with a wounded look in his eyes, then turns away. "If you would excuse me," Morphew chokes out, and from one moment to the next, he storms off the balcony and back inside the mansion. 

The Caretaker glowers at Dismas. The dark look makes for an expression that is as ridiculous as it is terrifying when combined with his permanent grin. 

"Shouldn't ya help yer master?" Dismas asks the servant. "Wouldn't wanna have him take a tumble down the stairs an' break his neck, eh?" 

The Caretaker cackles, but his eyes go wide with panic at the picture of Morphew falling to his death. With his arms stretched out before him, as if ready to catch his master should he stumble, the Caretaker takes off at a run. 

Thus, Dismas finds himself standing on the balcony, alone. Suddenly, he can breathe freely again. 

He recalls his dream and before he realizes that he has made up his mind, he is already swinging his leg over the balustrade. Dismas climbs over it the rest of the way, then attempts to lower himself to make the drop as short as possible. 

The balcony's metal bars are slick, and too thin to hold onto properly. They slip through Dismas' hands, and a few desperate, but ultimately futile leg kicks later, he is falling. Instead of meeting the hard ground, Dismas lands in a thorny brush, suppresses a howl of pain like a kicked dog, and drags himself though the vines to freedom. 

Dismas limps his way down the hill, ragged and bleeding, but determined to put as much distance between himself and that accursed mansion as possible. 

It is with a sigh of relief that he pushes into Jubie's tavern. 

In a nook right beside the tiled oven, Reynauld is eating his supper, alone save for the company of Mallilie the hound, who has curled up at his feet. He doesn't notice Dismas, and the highwayman tiptoes through the common room, then hastens upstairs. The crusader might have been the unknowing savior of the hour, but Dismas isn't going to clue him in. 

He tries the doors until he finds one that is unlocked. To Dismas' surprise it's not unoccupied though, as he finds out after he closes the door behind him. 

"Well, hello there." It's Jenny, who is watching Dismas with amused doe-like eyes. "I didn't know I was about to have company." 

"Truth be told, I was just lookin' fer a room," Dismas admits, scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Thought this one was free." 

"Madam's making a few changes, so we're staying at the tavern rooms," Jenny explains as she rises, her thin nightshirt pooling around her ankles. "Y' know what, why not, stay here." 

"If ya don't mind," Dismas answers and steps into the room. 

The girl's eyes widen as the light of the lamp illuminates his face. "What happened to you?"

"I got mauled by a shrub," Dismas laments, and toes out of his boots, leaving them lying on the floor as he falls into the bed. 

"Poor you," Jenny says. The bed dips lightly under her weight as she sits down next to Dismas. A heartbeat later, light fingers brush over the cuts on Dismas' temple. "How come you got attacked by that mean shrub?" 

Dismas laughs, and tells her about his meeting with the Heir. 

"What was the lord like?" Jenny asks in a hushed voice. 

"Weird," Dismas mumbles, cracking open one eye. "Invited me to stay over at the mansion." 

Jenny's eyes are huge, reflecting the light of the oil lamps. "And, did you accept?" she asks in a hushed whisper. 

"Darlin', I jumped off the balcony," Dismas tells her, his voice choked with laughter that has to hold back. "Dunno 'bout the local custom, but 'm sure to say that don't count as acceptin'." 

Jenny laughs, a pretty carefree sound and the tension that had filled the room for a moment evaporates with his confession. 

Dismas can feel her weight shift, and small hands begin to work the tension out of his shoulders. It's nice, but he is tired. For a moment he simply enjoys the attention, before he turns his head sideways to say, "Forgive me, lovely, but I'm knackered." 

She withdraws so abruptly that Dismas can feel the gust of cold air where her warmth used to be. 

"What?" Dismas asks, perhaps not very tactfully. 

"It's just that I used to be your favourite," the girl whispers. She looks very young and vulnerable all of a sudden. 

Dismas blinks. Light in Heaven, what was it with people wanting to lay him today? "Yer still my favourite," he says, doing his best not to slur his words too much. "But for spendin' time with, not for fucking." 

Her face is still unreadable, and Dismas hopes he isn't going to get himself gored by one of her stilettos. Then, Jenny bends down to lightly kiss his lacerated cheek. 

"You should get some rest." 

He is asleep before the amused girl can even reply. 

In the morning Dismas wakes to a delicious smell. He peels his face from the pillow to find a tray laden with food right next to it. Jenny is lying on her stomach on the other half of the bed, her legs swinging in the air. 

"Thanks, sweetie," Dismas says as he slowly rights himself. Jenny has brought enough for two, and they eat together and chat about nothing and everything. 

"Are you coming to see the play too?" Dismas asks towards the end of breakfast. 

"Sure! I even got a role," Jenny tells him. The girl is beaming, so Dismas shoots her a smile of his own when there is a knock on the door. 

"Dismas? You in there?" 

They both look up, and Dismas shrugs. "Yeah, who – " 

The door opens a crack to reveal a familiar face. 

"Had a good night?" Margaret asks, peeking into the room. 

"Uh-huh," Dismas grunts while Jenny wraps herself in the blanket, apparently ready to sleep some more. 

Since Dismas has been officially pronounced healthy, he can do some light training, and Margaret takes him along for target practice. 

"She is cute," Margaret says in an offhand-manner as they walk over to the shooting range. "Jenny, right?" 

"Yeah," Dismas mutters. "Wait, what? No, it ain't like that." 

"It is alright," Margaret insists with a knowing smile. 

Dismas curses. "We didn't fuck. I was drunk and fell asleep." Damn, that made it sound like he had wanted to, though. 

Margaret clicks her tongue."That's not very nice, falling asleep on a lady." 

"Yeah, good thing Jenny's a whore, not a lady." Dismas feels a pang of shame for doing the girl such an injustice, but Margaret rolls her eyes and doesn't press him further. 

Shooting comes naturally to Dismas. He hits his targets with the same confidence and ease with which he can make a stone skip over water. It is only after the pistols are empty, that he falters. He must reload, surely. Only, he does not remember how. 

Margaret shows him while she patiently explains the whole process. He learns how to hold the weapon and how to measure the black powder, then watches as Margaret loads his other pistol, much quicker and more efficient than before. 

"That's a neat trick," Dismas remarks. 

She nods and hands the weapon back to him. "You showed it to me." 

Dismas lets her words sink in. He knows from past comments that Margaret and Linesi the arbalest considered him to be their peer when it came to marksmanship, but he has never truly thought about it. "I was good, huh?" 

"You could reload your pistols blindfolded faster than anyone I've ever seen," Margaret says. "You once managed five shots off in a minute, and hit all of the targets." 

Dismas whistles. He had no idea anyone _could_ be that good, let alone that someone could be him. "Still, dunno 'bout the blindfold." 

"Oh, that was because you told us you couldn't always risk fire during a nighttime ambush," Margaret explains. "And it's a skill that has served us well in the dungeons. But we were always worried one day you'd lose your fingers due to embers in the bore."

Dismas holds up his hands, wiggling his fingers as if to check for himself. "Still got all o' em. 

"And make sure it stays that way," Margaret says in a stern voice, then, after many more rounds of shooting, shows him how to take care of his flintlocks by cleaning them of grime and soot. 

The day of the play, the town square is transformed into a grand open-air stage. The first rows consist of broad, sturdy benches, while further behind seats are erected on a raised dais. 

There had been a debate about setting up the theater in one of the fields, but in the end Pierre had thrown a tantrum on a scale that had Barristan turn all puffy and red, and stomp away. It would have been more impressive if the man-at-arms had been a taller man. The main reason they had, in the end, chosen the town square over one of the fields, was the acoustics. 

"It used to be we could just borrow half a dozen tables from Jubie, and it was enough," Linesi says and points Dismas and Darell a little bit towards the left. The arbalest is now overlooking the construction in Barristan's stead and when she nods, the two men put down the bench they had been carrying. Dismas is red-faced and sweating a river despite having dressed down to a shirt and having rolled up his sleeves, while the former lumberjack, probably used to logging around large chunks of wood, isn't even out of breath. 

"Aye, and Pierre was doing hand puppet plays, and telling stories back then," Junia adds as she joins them. The nun crosses her arms as she surveys all the construction work that is going on around them. "He's sure come a long way since then." 

"It's made him a diva," Linesi grumbles, and the nun laughs. 

Darell turns back towards the rows of seats, his hands on his hips. "Looking good, boss, what do you think?" 

Linesi musters the neat rows of seats with a critical eye. Then, she nods, a smile spreading across her face. "I think we're done." 

The last couple of hours before the play pass quickly. The town square is abuzz in nervous excitement as villagers are talking and laughing and milling around the stage, as if afraid that the play might begin early. Finally, the church bells announce the end of the mass – held earlier today – and quickly, the seats around the stage begin to fill. Those who did not get an outdoors seat crowd behind the windows of the tavern and brothel, and the other buildings that offer a view of the stage. 

Meanwhile, the front rows are reserved for the heroes of the Hamlet, and Dismas is surprised, yet pleased to be counted amongst them. He sits down with Margaret to his right while a tall, brown skinned woman takes the seat to his left. She is garbed in colourful cloth and leather, the style of which appears both martial and comfortable. The look is softened by a few gold ornaments, but the corded muscle in her arms marks her unmistakably for a warrior. 

"I don't think we've met," the woman says, regarding Dismas with curiosity. 

"No, I don't think we have," Dismas agrees and holds out his hand for her to shake. 

She does, but in doing so Dismas catches sight of her left arm which ends at a stump below her wrist. He knows that he doesn't succeed in hiding his expression of shock. 

"Armani." 

"You were part of the last expedition," Dismas blurts out, as if to make up for his staring. 

Armani nods, tactfully ignoring Dismas' rude behaviour. "With Damian, Tardif and Para, yes." 

"I met Para," Dismas recalls with a grimace and Armani laughs, a surprisingly deep sound for a woman. 

Children with trays of snacks and drink scurry between the grownups, and Dismas buys ale for the three of them, along with some spicy meat skewers, rings of dried apple, and hazlenuts roasted in honey. 

Suddenly, there is a sound like thunder and Margaret lets out an excited squeal and grips Dismas' hand. 

The chatter around them dies down immediately, the jovial, relaxed atmosphere replaced by one of eager anticipation. Armani shoots Dismas a grin as the cloth begins to lift, revealing the stage and the solitary figure standing in its middle. Dexterous fingers move over the strings of a lute to coax it into a soft tune. 

Pierre begins his play with the tragic story of a kingdom, where the good king was dethroned by his younger brother, who, always the second, overlooked, was now possessed of an insatiable lust for power. Even as the royal family was executed for treason, one wet nurse found the courage to smuggle the king's son, a mere babe at the time, out of the castle and to deliver it into the hands of a retinue of loyal followers. Those men and women, condemned to a life as rebel fighters, all swore fealty to the true heir. One day they would see their liege take his rightful throne, and when he did and their exile came to an end, the kingdom would know peace and prosperity one more. 

The music stops for one moment, then picks up again, louder this time than before. The notes hang in the air, discordant and ominous. The music continues even as the curtain closes. When it opens a few minutes later to the cheers of the crowd, the scenery has changed. A large linen sheet that is spanned over the back of the stage shows the majestic outline of a castle, and the chair that has appeared on the stage is decorated to look like a throne. 

A figure in long robes reclines in it, its features indistinguishable until it raises its head. Dismas has to chuckle when he sees who has been cast for the role of the evil monarch. It is none other than Alhazred, and it is obvious that he is enjoying every moment on stage. The scholar rests the tips of his fingers against each other, and his dark eyes are like two pits. Even Alhazred's voice seems sharper somehow, cold and cruel, and his act sends murmurs of unease and approval through the crowd. 

The king announces his plans to marry his daughter to some lord of great political importance. Of course, a royal marriage requires a proper banquet, and thus the king sends out envoys far and wide to carry the message of the betrothal. But unbeknownst to him, his two closest confidantes are traitors who covet the kingdom for themselves. 

Thus, they have come up with a devious plan to murder their liege. 

For that very purpose they hired Danneville, the greatest court jester of all times. But Danneville is not just a musician and a comedian – he is as quick with his dirk as he is with a joke – for he is also a master assassin. 

A lucky turn of fate forces Danneville, en route to the king's court, to seek shelter from a terrible storm. Thus, he stumbles into the rebel village, where the food and wine that his hosts offer him loosens his tongue enough for him to mention the king's invitation. The moment Danneville lays down to rest, he is taken prisoner with one of the rebels to impersonate him. 

That man happens to be Pierre, who is not just the narrator of his play, but also assumes the role of the hero, a quick witted, if somewhat clumsy and naïve member of the group of rebels. 

Pierre travels to the king's court, tasked with finding a way to open the castle's secret passage that the wet nurse had used on the night she had fled with the infant regent. It would allow the rebel forces to take the castle in a storm, without risking open battle. 

But trouble begins the moment Pierre, disguised as Danneville the court jester, sets foot in the keep. Of course, Pierre has no idea that he has been hired to assassinate the king, but he manages not to break cover even as the two traitorous lords corner him. Yet clueless Pierre side-steps all their innuendo with clever remarks and distractions, aided by no small amount by lady luck. 

Even his audience with the king is a success, and as Pierre teaches the crowd the lyrics to his songs, and in no time at all, the viewers happily chime in. Now Dismas knows why the jester insisted upon setting up the stage right in the middle of the town, where even the last rows can hear his voice, loud and clear. 

Then, the princess enters the stage. Dismas barely recognizes Audrey beneath a wig a lot of make-up, and dressed in a skirt instead of her usual eccentric mix of leather and lace. All pity he might have felt for the character who is about to be forced into a marriage evaporates when they learn that the princess is no less cunning and cruel than her father. Used to pulling the strings in the back, Audrey's performance gives Dismas the chills, and he can tell that his friend is right in her element. 

Josephine has a role as the princesses' servant, a witch whose evil eye can hypnotize anyone who gazes into it and a snap of her fingers makes any man lose his free will. 

As the fake Danneville falls under the witches' spell everything seemed lost and Pierre has the audience gasping, at the edge of their seats, as he proclaims he will now announce his undying love for the princess to the king, and convince him to let her marry him, or die trying. 

He storms off the stage, and then another roll of drums announces a break. 

There is a collective groan from the audience, but the mood soon lightens as people stand up to stretch their backs and to get their mugs refilled. 

Margaret decides that she needs to head somewhere, and pulls Dismas along, leaving Armani with a pile of snacks that the Eastern woman decimates with an expression of bliss. Margaret leads Dismas behind the stage, where tents have been erected to give the actors a place to spend the time when they're not on stage and to keep away the curious onlookers. 

Dismas, following Margaret's lead, ducks into one of the tents. Its interior is a simple rug, a table and a couple of chairs. Audrey relaxes in one of the chairs. She has discarded her wig and Dismas can see that she is flushed under all the heavy makeup. 

"You were amazing!" Margaret croons, handing her lover a cup of water that Audrey accepts with a grateful expression, draining it in a single go while Cat, one of the brothel girls, busies herself fixing Audrey's makeup, which has begun to run at the hairline. 

"How do you like the play so far?" Audrey asks. 

"It's great!" Dismas exclaims with a laugh, and he doesn't have to lie one bit. The play has just the right amount of comedy and suspense, and the songs are simple enough for the audience to sing or whistle along to. The tent fills out as the actors file in, Alhazred and Josephine, and various others. They talk about Pierre's close calls, and laugh at the best jokes until Audrey leans close to Dismas, her words for his ears alone. 

"Say, have you talked to Rey yet?"

"Who?" 

Audrey looks at him askew. "You know, _Reynauld_." 

"Why would I want to talk to him?" Dismas asks, aghast. He has more sense than to tangle with a religious fanatic. 

Audrey sighs, and for the first time since Dismas has known her, she looks nervous. "Walk with me?" It seems that she is trying to spare him the embarrassment of having his personal relations explained in front of the others. He will have to remember to do something real nice for Audrey. 

When they're outside, a sigh of relief escapes Audrey at the fresh evening breeze. "Look. He has asked about you," she begins as they take a stroll with no particular destination in mind. 

Reynauld. They were still talking about the crusader, right? Audrey must have seen the disbelief in his mien, because she rests a hand on Dismas' shoulder. 

"He…cares about you." 

"I don't think he likes me all that much," Dismas stammers. 

Audrey groans. " _Dismas_." The exasperation is so thick in her voice it makes Dismas physically uncomfortable. He draws up his shoulders, hiding in the thick fur of his coat. He had noticed his friend's ribbing, the occasional innuendo thrown his way, and he had ignored all of it. Now, a part of his mind is screaming that he is not ready to have that kind of talk. 

"He didn't try to see me," Dismas points out and even to his own ears he sounds like a petulant child searching for an excuse to avoid a detested task. But there is truth in his words. Reynauld had pretty much ignored him so far. 

"He didn't?" Audrey appears to be surprised by the news. "I thought he'd –, well. Since you were… friends." 

"We were friends?" Dismas repeats. 

Audrey lays a single finger on her chin as she tilts her head. "Mhm, I'm not so sure about that." 

"So he cares about me, but we ain't friends?" Dismas says, more confused than ever. 

"You argued often," Audrey says by way of explanation. 

"Light help me, woman, if ya don't speak straight I'm gonna have to take ya to Para to get yer head checked," Dismas growls, heedless that it was his own head that decided to chuck all his memory right out. 

They have walked a small circle, returning to the actor's tent. 

"You'll just have to figure it out for yourself," Audrey answers with determination. She worries her lip, then turns to take Dismas' hands in her own. "Look, I know he's not easy to be around, but…you did have a way of getting through to him when we couldn't. Just talk to him, if only to spare me having him visit every other night to– " 

She breaks off, and before Dismas can react in any other way than to stare at her in shock, she announces that she needs to get ready for the stage. The tent flap closes in Dismas' face, who staggers back to his seat with Audrey's words still rattling around his skull. 

"Is everything alright?" Magaret asks him, as the chipper redhead sits down beside him again. 

"Sure," Dismas answers, still pondering everything he has learned when Margaret suddenly calls out,

"Look who's here!" The redhead gets up and waves. "Hey! Hey, Rey!" 

Dismas will be damned sooner than believe that this is circumstance, but before he can shush Margaret, the crusader's head turns towards them. He's easy to make out in the crowd, towering over most of the villagers and Dismas' heart skips a couple of beats as the man's eyes focus on them. He slumps in his seat as the crusader pauses, then heads their way. 

"Bonjour Rey," Margaret greets the crusader with a smile that the man returns weakly. It seems genuine, but it doesn't reach his eyes. As if smiling is a reflexive response remembers, but doesn't understand. 

"Why don't you sit with us?" Margaret offers and scoots over, pulling Dismas along so that there is just enough space for the large man to squeeze himself in next to Dismas. 

It is then that Reynauld appears to notice the highwayman, and his eyes grow wide, a crease appearing between his brows. There are dark bruises under the warrior's eyes, and both his beard and hair have a overgrown, unkempt look to them that Dismas had never noticed before. Then again, they had never been this close.

Dismas cannot help but notice how his heartbeat picks up at the attention of the crusader. 

"If I may?" Reynauld asks, and his voice is softer than Dismas had imagined it. He realizes this is the first time he has heard the other man speak other than to yell instructions at the recruits. 

"Dismas wanted you to join us," Margaret continues says, her tone sincere and innocent, as she leans forward to look at them both. 

A blatant lie, but Dismas doesn't correct her when he sees the surprise in Reynauld's face. A moment later, the crusader's features soften into a genuine expression of joy and the feeling in Dismas' chest intensifies tenfold which is strange, because there is nothing menacing about Reynauld's smile, quite to the contrary. 

"Dismas – " 

There is a hint of memory there, like a lingering aftertaste, a whiff of perfume long after the person has departed. Part of it feels like fear and Dismas can make no sense of his own feelings. 

Before he can say anything, the drums roll again. 

"We should - ," Reynauld gestures at the benches. 

"Yeah," Dismas agrees, swallowing past a dry throat. 

They sit down, close enough that their sides touch. Dismas imagines that he can feel a shiver pass through Reynauld's broad frame, but the crusader doesn't move away. 

The play continues. 

Pierre manages to free himself from the curse the princess' witch has laid on him, then bests the king's champion in a tournament for which he is even knighted. 

Ultimately, he succeeds in finding the hidden passage and leads the rebels to victory. 

Once the last songs are sung, the audience erupts in thunderous cheers and applause that continue for what feels like an eternity. When they finally die down, Dismas is surprised to see that the moon and stars are in the sky. He'd been so engrossed in the play that he had missed the sun setting. 

But while they had enjoyed the play, others had not been idle. Pierre announces that bonfires will be lit in the fields, even as braziers are kindled in the town square. A euphoric, festive mood lies in the air, and no one feels like heading back home yet. 

"Wanna go sit 'round one of 'em bonfires?" Dismas nervously asks the man next to him. He is surprised to see the crusader rub his palms together, slowly but incessantly. 

Reynauld nods, but doesn't follow Dismas. "Go on ahead, I'll be with you in a moment." 

Dismas joins Audrey, Margaret and a few others around one of the many bonfires that have been lit in the practice fields in the meantime. There are wooden footstools and piles of straw to sit on, and the villagers' kids dart from one fire to the other, trying to sell the last of their roasted hazelnuts, or some spiced bread dough, or sausages for skewers. 

Audrey is visibly exhausted, and falls asleep with her head in Margaret's lap. 

There is no sight of Reynauld. 

Wavering between disappointment and relief, Dismas enjoys the hypnotic calm of the fire, watching it burn and listening to the conversations around him until the stars begin to flicker and pale. 

Dismas doesn't wait up on the other man. 

He reaches the end of the town square before he recalls that he got kicked out of the sanatorium. He stands in the shadow of the stone buildings, undecided as what to do now. He could head to the tavern. The crown windows glow golden in the night, and laughter and voices spill into the street. Dismas keeps walking. 

The entrance to the church is dark and silent, but the gloom is not oppressive. Rather, it brings to mind a comforting blanket and the thick curtain keeps the nippiness of the night at bay. Dismas walks through the heavy cloth to find the inside illuminated by the candle altar. In all the times he had visited the church, he has never seen all the candles extinguished. 

Whoever lights them is diligent in their duty and Dismas adds one little light to the flickering tapestry of fire before he sinks down onto a high-backed pew. Today has been exciting and exhausting in equal measure. 

He intends to say a quick prayer to thank the Light, but while the first Verse of the prayer comes easily, Dismas finds it increasingly hard to concentrate on what follows. He shakes his head, but his thoughts have drifted off. Instead of the holy words, his mind is now filled with jolly songs, colourful costumes and a sad pair of brown eyes that regard him with breathtaking intensity. 

Dismas shakes his head and starts anew. This time he gets but two stanzas further than on his first attempt. The highwayman yawns. The Light from the candle altar blinds him. Dismas closes his eyes. Just for a moment, just to help him concentrate…

He can see Pierre, playing his lute on the stage. There is Audrey in her makeup and costume, but she's standing in the Heir's mansion. Clearer than all, he can see Reynauld's battle-weary face before his inner eyelid. 

The next thing that Dismas knows, there is a seagull pecking at his knee. He tries to shoo it away, but the bloody hellbird won't let him sleep. 

"Dismas _,"_ the bird speaks in a voice much too deep for its scrawny neck. 

Dismas wants to tell it to fuck off, but there is something stuck in his throat and he coughs, coming to ungraciously. His neck is stiff from having fallen asleep with it at a weird angle against the hard wood of the pew. He hopes he hasn't drooled in his sleep. He quickly wipes a rough palm over his mouth just in case. 

"Wha– ?" He blinks at the shape before him, and then stares, wide-eyed. 

Reynauld's hand is still resting on Dismas' knee as the crusader crouches in front of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun typos:  
> When the guardsmen come, he meets them with his dork drawn. *tsk, Dismas, *tsk.


End file.
